She ate. Not enthusiastically, not with any particular attention, but the way people ate when they’d forgotten hunger was a thing and then suddenly remembered. He sat across from her and worked through his own bowl, and neither of them spoke, and it was the first silence between them all day that didn’t feel like something to survive.
When she finished, she pushed the bowl away and wrapped both hands around the wine glass without drinking from it.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.”
She looked at the icon again. He wanted to say something useful, something that would actually help, but there wasn’t anything. Sabin was still out there. Praetorian still had forty-eight hours to torture him. There was nothing to do about any of it until Davey landed on this island, and words weren’t going to change that.
“I used to have nightmares about it,” she said suddenly, her voice so quiet he almost missed it. “About Istanbul. Being locked in that room.”
Dom went still. They didn’t talk about Istanbul. Not directly. It had always been all sharp edges and barbed comments, accusations hurled like grenades.
“Three days,” she continued, still staring at the icon. “I screamed until I lost my voice. Begged you to let me go. And you just... sat there. Watching me fall apart.”
He swallowed hard. “I know.”
“The worst part wasn’t the betrayal.” Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “It was knowing that you did it because you loved me. That your love looked like a prison cell.” She turned her head then, meeting his eyes across the room. “Do you have any idea what that does to a person? To realize that the man you love thinks loving you means taking away your choices?”
Dom’s chest tightened. He wanted—God, did he want—to offer some fresh version of the apology she’d heard a thousand times.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, the words utterly inadequate. “I’ve been sorry every day for three years.”
“I know.” She rubbed her eyes, suddenly looking exhausted. “That’s the hell of it. I know you’re sorry. I’ve always known. It doesn’t change anything.”
“Sabin made me promise.” He could see it all so clearly—the alley, the sirens, Sabin’s face tight with panic and determination. “He grabbed me, right before he went out there to face the police. Said, ‘Get her out. Get her somewhere safe. Don’t let her come back for me, no matter what. Promise me.’”
She nodded. “I know that now.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think you understand. I promised him,” Dom continued, “and when we got to the safe house, you were already planning how to go back, how to get him out. I knew you’d do it. I knew you’d throw yourself into that fire for him. And I was terrified of losing you. I’ve faced down armed hostiles without blinking, but the thought of you walking back into a Turkish prison and disappearing forever...” He rubbed his hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. “I couldn’t lose you.”
The memory of those hours in the safe house crawled up his spine. The way she’d paced like a caged animal, plotting, scheming, growing more desperate with each passing hour. The moment he’d realized what he was going to do—what he had to do—and the sick feeling in his gut as he’d slipped the sedative into her drink.
“So you locked me up instead.” Her voice was soft, not accusing. Just stating a fact.
“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought...” He exhaled heavily. “I thought a lot of things that turned out to be wrong.”
The room went quiet again. A motorcycle roared past on the street below. Someone laughed, the sound distant and disconnected from their small bubble of painful truth.
“I forgive you,” she said eventually. Then, when he jerked his head up to stare at her in disbelief, she added, softer: “I’m tired, Dom. So tired of carrying this. So I forgive you.”
It was so much more than he could have hoped for. More than he deserved.
She did look tired. Her eyelids were going heavy. She was fighting it, the way she fought everything, with her jaw set and her spine straight. But the wine had loosened something, and the food had helped, and the adrenaline that had been holding her upright since they’d walked out of Villa Pandora was finally running dry.
“Come on,” Dom said, taking the wine glass from her hand and setting it on the table. “You need to rest.”
She didn’t protest as he drew her to her feet, walked her to the bed, and pulled back the thin blanket. She sat on the edge and reached for her shoes with hands that weren’t quite steady.
“I’ve got it.” He crouched and undid the straps himself, setting each sandal aside. When he looked up, she was watching him with an expression he couldn’t name—something raw and open that she hadn’t let him see in years.
He stood. “Lie down.”
She swung her legs up and settled back against the pillow, still in her dress. He pulled the blanket up to her shoulder and straightened.
“Dom.”
He stopped.
